


Primordial

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Gen, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-10
Updated: 2004-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dinosaurs haven't died out after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primordial

Colin's arm felt funny. He had been Captain Dinosaur in the last game of Superheroes, and after the game had ended, his right arm hadn't quite gone back into place by his side. His elbow was locked in place by his chest; it was too stiff to move.

Ryan, looking at it, said, “You think you sprained it or something?”

Colin shook his head. “I think it's just a cramp.” He straightened his arm with difficulty, surprised at a sudden shock of pain. “See?” he said with a forced smile. “Good as new.”

“Maybe you should get it checked out,” Ryan said. “You're not a young man anymore.”

Colin sighed; Ryan never missed a chance to remind him of his age. “Neither are you. I'll put some ice on it when I get back to the hotel.”

“Okay,” Ryan said doubtfully. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

Colin walked out of the studio, trying to flex his elbow. It was harder to move than he thought it should be, but it was possible.

Driving back to the hotel, his arm stiffened up again. It was actually difficult to drive; this time his arm locked into position and refused to move at all. Colin figured he might have strained something or other; getting hurt wasn't unusual in this line of work, and like Ryan had irritatingly said, he wasn't young anymore. He'd call someone about his arm if it wasn't better by morning.

Once in his hotel room, he started for the minibar to get some ice, but stopped, actually swaying from exhaustion. He could barely move. I'll ice it later, he thought, and dropped onto the bed, almost instantly falling into a deep sleep.

He dreamed he was wandering through a thick green mist, searching for something he couldn't quite name. It was cold in the dream, horribly cold; the air smelled of ice. He was hungry and lost and he was slowing down, falling, the ground was hard against his face as he landed...

Colin woke with a start, shivering. The room was dark and cold. He ached all over. His skin felt thick and rough.

_Crap, maybe I've got the flu._

He stood up, startled at how off-balance he felt, and stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light with his elbow, stood over the sink to wash his face, and when his eyes focused to the light he cried out.

He didn't recognize the thing in the mirror. Green scaly skin, mouth pushed forward into what could only be called a snout, sharp pointed teeth jutting from the jaws...

He looked down. His right arm had withered overnight. It was covered in the same green scales. The fingernails had thickened and grown; they looked like claws. His fingers had fused together.

Colin backed away from the mirror, thinking, _This can't be happening, this isn't happening, my name is Colin Mochrie, I'm a Canadian citizen, this can't be happening to me..._

He walked out of the bathroom, shaking his head to try and clear it. He moved to turn on the bedside lamp. He flicked it on and hissed as a sharp pain shot through his foot. He wanted to ignore it, but curiosity got the better of him. He looked down.

A thick, white claw was growing out of the top of his foot, arching over his middle toe. There was a thin trickle of blood near the base where it had pierced the skin. He bent down and touched it with his good hand. It was hard and sharp. He tensed his foot; the claw retracted back, leaving only a three inch long cut on the top of his foot. For a moment he stared at it, then went for his cell phone.

He stifled the impulse to dial with his right hand. It was too short and he was having trouble controlling his fingers. He put the phone on the bed and dialed 911 with his left hand, then picked it up. He could feel his left arm beginning to stiffen now.

“911 emergency.”

“I think I need an ambulance,” Colin said, his voice sounding far away. “Uh, something's, something seems to be _happening_ to me...”

“What is that, sir?”

“I think I'm turning into a dinosaur.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I'm turning into a dinosaur.”

“Please don't harass me, sir.”

“I'm not harassing you!” Colin heard his voice grow shrill. “I'm turning into some sort of animal.”

“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”

“No!” Colin stifled a moan; his arm was aching more and more. “I'm from Canada and I'm turning into a dinosaur. Could you, please...”

“Sir, I suggest you sober up before you call us again.” She hung up.

Colin put the phone down. Sober up, sober up...maybe she was right. Maybe this was just some bizarre smog-induced dream. Maybe he'd just done one dinosaur impression too many. He tried to lie back down, but a sudden shooting pain in his left hand sent him sitting straight up. He stared down at his hands.

His right arm had totally withered by now. He had only three fingers in place of five. The claws seemed more prominent. And his left arm...everything from his shoulder to his elbow was locked in place by his chest. He could almost feel it growing back into his body. Looking down at it, he imagined he could see his fingers fusing together. His skin felt tougher, almost like armor.

He reached for the cell phone again, but with his shortened arms, it was too difficult to pick up, and his hands were too thick and unwieldy to dial properly. He shut his eyes.

The pains stopped around dawn. He had almost gotten used to flinching from pain; being without them felt almost abnormal.

Now that the pain had stopped, he was able to look at his body more critically. He had sprouted a stiff, thick tail sometime earlier; it gave him some type of balance, and let him turn sharply and quickly. He had regained some sort of control over his hands. They were still small and weak, but by leaning in close and concentrating, he could pick up anything at chest level. He hadn't figured out his knees yet. He bent forward, staggering a bit, seeing just how low he could go.

Suddenly he was starving. He looked at the hotel minibar, leaned back on his tail, and opened the door with his foot. Unfortunately, the minibar was stocked electronically. He doubted his fingers could handle typing in little numbers and then picking up the Toblerone or whatever they had. And he didn't want the chips and soda and chocolate and nuts that the minibar had. What he really wanted was a hamburger, or better yet, a steak, rare, served without adornment, red and thick with blood. His mouth watered; he flicked his tongue along his snout to catch the moisture. He spun around irritably, shutting the door with his tail. He paced the room, watching the sun come up behind the curtains.

He lost track of time. He was distracted by various things, the uncomfortable cold of the air conditioning, the feeling of power running through his body, the smell of a mixture of air conditioning coolant, cotton sheets, and something primordial but comfortingly familiar in the air. He was balancing himself on his tail, trying to figure out a way to turn the air conditioning off (he didn't like feeling cold, he needed some kind of heat) when there was a knock at the door.

He whirled around, took a few steps forward. The claws on his feet unsheathed themselves almost automatically. He crouched.

“Who is it?” There was a different tone to his voice, Colin noticed. It sounded almost reptilian, with a slight hissing on the esses.

“Housekeeping,” a chipper female voice said.

Colin took a few more steps forward, feeling the power in his legs. He remained in the crouch, edging towards the door.

“Can you come back later?” he said.

“Sure.” He heard the footsteps retreat. He straightened, his heart stopped beating its frantic rhythm, and he went back to the air conditioning.

It wasn't until he'd finally figured out how to turn it off that he realized that he had been ready to attack the woman outside the door, for no other reason than he was hungry. Even now, his stomach was beginning to growl, he could taste the rich coppery tang of blood in his mouth...

And he realized that the change wasn't just physical. He was turning into an animal inside and out. Yesterday the thought of attacking someone would have horrified him, but now it seemed natural; he couldn't see why he'd ever done anything else. He could feel his thoughts drifting away from the fascination of the change in him, from the awareness of himself as Colin Andrew Mochrie, turning to simple, direct thoughts, almost impulses. Run. Kill. Eat. Run.

He was no longer himself. And he had no way to turn back. His body was turning against him, bringing him back to something primitive and wild. He couldn't even pick up a pen and write a goodbye letter to his wife, his friends, his parents, his son. _Dear Luke, Dad can't come home. He's turned into a monster. But he loves you._

Standing in the middle of his hotel room, his clawed hands dangling uselessly, Colin wept like a child.

The tears dried after a little while. He tilted his head, wondering what the moisture on his face was, and then forgot about it.

He moved to the window, flicking the curtain aside with his tail. Outside the sun was shining. The air was hazy with heat. There were people moving underneath his window, walking up and down the pavement.

He stood looking out over the city, at the buildings, at the people below. The city was full of prey for the taking.

And it all belonged to him.


End file.
